


This Is How We Fall To One Another

by midnightflame



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Sex, Comfort, Dirty Talk, Future Fic, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, No really Yuri has a filthy mouth, Rough Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9912911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: There are many ways to define love, and Otabeck comes to learn three of them at the hands of Yuri.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, ended up rewatching YOI and on the second go around, I think I found myself loving these two more than ever. But anyways, here is a short piece exploring a bit of the idea of love, or something like that.

The first time he kisses Yuri is in Helsinki, three weeks after his eighteenth birthday. 

Two hours before they had sat down to dinner at a small but cozy restaurant whose owners were more than happy to accommodate the skating crowd. Yuri had been dragged out of his hotel room by Victor, and Otabek in turn had been lured from his own by the buzzing of his cell phone announcing the arrival of a single line of what could only be interpreted as 'angry' text.

_If you don’t come to this godforsaken dinner right now I swear I’ll wring his fucking neck and serve him to everyone instead._

Most would call it a threat. Otabek had simply smiled at the letters glaring across the screen with far more fondness than anyone would think Yuri’s words had deserved. But they didn’t know Yuri, and Otabek had easily figured out what sat beneath it all. He had left his own room several minutes later, tugging on a leather jacket and a pair of gloves, army green scarf held in his hand. 

Yuri had been seated at the far end of the table, curled up on his chair like a cat stranded on a rock at high-tide, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his forehead, the blue-green of his eyes like the waters of the Adriatic churning along the coastline. Otabek had dropped into the chair across from him, setting his gloves on the table, and had waited as the breath spilled over Yuri’s lips, as the smile slowly crept over his mouth next, warm and grateful. 

“You’re late,” he had muttered, the dark-and-stormy of his tone a complete mismatch to the brightness of his gaze. 

Otabek had simply shrugged, giving the barest hint of a smile in return. 

A half an hour ago they had departed from the crowd, Yuri insisting he was going to puke up the entirety of his dinner if he had to witness any more of Katsuki’s _love_ and Victor’s complete and utter idiocy in the face of it. His hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, Otabek had led the way, content to wander through the shadows crawling over the streets while Yuri had woven in and out around the lampposts, shedding his irritation with every step until he was happily chatting about this orange tabby cat he was considering adopting.

Because Lev needed a companion, or so Yuri had begun to think. Russian winters could be just a bit lonely, after all.

And now, they are here. Otabek had seen the place in one of the brochures in the hotel’s main lobby earlier that morning. The church is oddly compact, tall but intimate, its walls curved and seemingly lit from within by the glow cast over its sides from the lights planted around its base. The Square itself is near empty, just a handful of patrons milling about, all of them oblivious to Otabek and Yuri which is how both of them generally preferred it. 

He circles around the church, following in Yuri’s wake, until he stops in the shadow of the building. Yuri pulls back the hood of his sweatshirt, tugs the jacket he had thrown over it a little bit tighter around him. Otabek follows his gaze as it rises towards the top of the church and then drifts to the sky itself, a bruised blue-purple staining it dark, the moonlight frosting it luminous. A perfect contrast to the light bronzed aspect of the church’s outer walls. 

“So this is the place?” 

Otabek gives a short nod. 

The corner of Yuri’s mouth lifts ever so slightly, and he begins walking again, deeper into the shadows. Until all Otabek can really make out of him is the gold of his hair, gilded like a halo beneath the moon’s glow, and the white of his jacket. Sunk into the black and the cold of the night, and still burning brilliantly within it.

And Otabek thinks that never has there been such stunning dichotomy in one person.

When he comes to stand beside Yuri, their arms bump together and Yuri jostles his elbow in return. His hair has been pulled back into a ponytail, though strands of it refuse to be tamed and frame Yuri’s face, curtaining his forehead. 

“It’s not bad,” Yuri murmurs, a smile sitting small and impossibly pretty over his lips, struck just a bit with awe. “Your taste for these things, I mean.”

And there, a flash of mischief in Yuri’s eyes that has Otabek laughing softly despite himself. 

“This is suppose to be a place of silence,” Yuri chides him, looking not the least bit apologetic. 

His gaze lingers on Otabek’s, the smile slowly giving way to a smirk when Otabek refuses to back down. And that is when he leans in, just as Yuri’s lips part for what Otabek imagines would be some sort of smartass comment, goading in a way that has turned playful over the years since Barcelona. Words he doesn’t get to hear because he doesn’t give Yuri the space to voice them. 

He can feel the jolt as it shocks Yuri’s spine, an electric surge coursing through his body. The blue of his eyes darkens, almost swallowing the green entirely, and just when Otabek thinks he’s made some unforgivable mistake, Yuri is pulling him down by the collar of his jacket and biting sharply at his lower lip.

“If you’re going to kiss me, then fucking do it,” he murmurs against Otabek’s lips, with that smirk enthroned upon his mouth, wicked in its righteousness. 

And perhaps this is a mistake, because no one walks with open arms into a lake of hellfire, but Otabek knows there is always a touch of madness to love, and there is nothing he has come to love more than Yuri as he stands there ready to take on the world.

*

It’s three months before the Olympics when he first sleeps with Yuri.

He had been woken up by the insistent buzzing of his phone, one call after another cutting into the darkest hours of the night. On the fifth one, he had finally reached out and pressed his thumb over the accept call button, sending it straight to speaker phone as he buried his head once more against his pillow.

_Otabek._

Victor’s voice. The rarity of it should have been more than enough to startle him out of whatever hold sleep still had over him, but it had been the solemnity carrying his name across the miles that had jarred him fully awake. 

_Nikolai has passed away. . .about two hours ago. You should go to Russia._

It had taken him thirty minutes to find the next possible flight, another thirty to pack. Forty-five to get to the airport from his apartment. By dinner the next day, he had been in Moscow, standing at the door of Yuri’s grandfather’s apartment. The days that followed did so in the odd whirlwind that always seemed to take over whenever someone passes and grief came flooding through a home, this giant monster of a storm that half try to avoid talking about while the others all but drown themselves in it. 

Yuri, Otabek had come to find, sat right in the middle of those two potentials. Left to himself or alone with Otabek, he was quiet, becoming this small ball of sorrow that spent more time catnapping on the couch or in a chair, as if the god of dreams himself might promise to deliver him relief. When he was caught up with the family’s affairs however, he turned moody, lashing out like a tiger wounded and cornered by the world. 

It was only when Otabek took him away that the calm settled over him, and the inexplicable pain of loss turned him taciturn again. This heavy bit of human left to find himself in the world once more. 

A week after the funeral, they had returned to Yuri’s apartment in Saint Petersburg. Otabek had been there once before in the last year, and the place remained much the same. Small but cozy, with clothes tossed over the arm of the couch but the kitchen immaculate. Several newspapers were scattered across the dining table, all folded to the pages discussing the latest skating competition results. A note had sat on the counter just inside the doorway, written in Russian, but Otabek had recognized Mila’s name scrawled along the bottom.

Someone had to have been watching the cats, both of which had come trotting out of the bedroom to curl themselves around Yuri’s legs. He had bent over then, petting both while murmuring to them softly in Russian, this fragile smile on his lips. 

If there had been anything Otabek had come to learn about Yuri over the years, it was that he was beautifully human. And that there were far more things off the ice that could break a skater’s heart, and it would either wreak havoc on their career or elevate it beyond anything they themselves could have thought possible in the depths of their despair.

Otabek had a fair idea which would prove true for Yuri, but they still had time and Yuri still had a world to find his way through.

He’s woken late that night by the creak of Yuri’s bedroom door opening. After Otabek had unpacked most of their things, Yuri had showered and gone straight to bed, leaving him a party of one to scavenge dinner out of Yuri’s threadbare cabinets. The couch was large enough though, and there were blankets strewn about, giving Otabek his pick as he had settled in over the cushions and let sleep take him, quick and easy as it so often did for the exhausted. 

But when Yuri walks through the door and out into the living area, Otabek doesn’t even bother trying to get up, doesn't even look for a clock to tell him the hour. He knows it’s still dark, and the moon is still high, and Yuri is looking like he’s stepped right out of the underworld itself, haunting and ethereal. His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, his torso completely bare. A pair of white sweatpants hangs over his hips, skin pale and silvered beneath the moonlight spilling in through the living room windows.

As Yuri pulls to a halt before the couch, Otabek can see the dark circles beneath his eyes, putting an otherworldly brightness to the blue-green of his gaze. He sits up then, sliding his legs around and placing his feet solidly against the floor. Yuri moves into the space before him, gaze steadfast on Otabek’s.

And he begins to really wonder if he hasn’t found himself in some different realm, courted by ghosts and dreams.

Without a word, Yuri takes his hand and tugs. Otabek obeys, pushing himself away from the couch and silently trailing in Yuri’s wake as he leads him back into the bedroom. Not a word drops from Yuri’s lips, silence sealing his mouth.

Not even as he moves Otabek against the bed and pushes him down to sit upon the mattress. Or as he leans in, kissing him soft and needing. Not even as a knee sinks in between his thighs and a hand pulls at the hem of his T-shirt. 

Otabek simply relents, seeing precisely where this road is taking him and why he’s being led there, and there is nothing he can do to deny Yuri that. 

So when Yuri asks, soundless, he answers. First with his shirt, discarding that to the forgotten end of the bed. And then with hands over skin, ghosting up along Yuri’s sides as he tips his head and offers his mouth again for the taking. When Yuri kisses him, Otabek can taste everything, from the quiet constricting desperation to the slow burning desire, telling Yuri he needs to connect, needs to find something of himself in someone, and who better than Otabek.

And for everything he has come to learn of Yuri, Otabek is willing to let it be taken from him, if it means making something of Yuri whole once again. Even as he knows there is ultimately no need, because Yuri has never been anything but resilient and beautiful, forging his way with fire over ice. 

By the time Otabek is stripped down entirely, he finally notes the life bleeding back into Yuri’s gaze, and when Yuri climbs over his lap, slowly lowering himself moments later to take Otabeck into himself, he can hear it in his voice. And as Yuri comes, he can taste it on his lips, this hot aching relief as a soul salvages itself from the ashes of all it had once known. 

With breath shuddering and heart pounding, Otabeck wraps his arms around Yuri’s waist, tugging him in closer still. Yuri sinks down against him, undone and heavy, with arms draping across Otabeck’s shoulders and head burying itself against his neck, and for the first time since Otabeck’s arrival in Russia, Yuri starts to sob.

*

“Just who the fuck does that goddamn French asshole think he is, huh?”

The first time Otabeck fucks Yuri, it’s the day after the European Championship. 

“It was two fucking tenths of a point. I’ll obliterate the shit out of him at Worlds.”

Otabeck is smiling, thoroughly entertained, as he stands in the corner of Yuri’s kitchen. There’s coffee starting to go cold in the pot, right next to the bowl of fruit he had been slicing for breakfast before Yuri had entered and begun rampaging once again. All because of an article on the internet, daring to speculate that Yuri might be on his way out as skating’s golden child.

An inevitability of aging in a sport that heralded the young and talented over the veteran and well. . .still pretty fucking talented. But twenty is a far cry from sixteen in the eyes of the skating world, and everyone loves to look at who is coming up next. 

It’s nothing Otabeck hasn’t seen before, and he lets consolation come in the form of amusement as Yuri scowls at the computer like that might somehow convince it to erase the article from the history of its pages. 

“And what are you over there smiling about anyway?”

Otabeck shrugs, setting the knife down on the cutting block. He pushes away from the counter and makes his way over to where Yuri has set himself, solid as stone, against the kitchen's small island, where the plates he should have been putting out for breakfast are still neatly stacked with silverware on top. 

Sliding his arms around Yuri’s waist, Otabeck leans in, making sure the curve of his lips is felt alongside Yuri’s neck. Warm and full of promise, and not without his previous amusement. To think for some he’s the Hero of Kazakhstan, but relegated to the space of this kitchen, between just the two of them, he is nothing more than a tiger tamer. 

“Thinking of how I might get us back on track for breakfast. That’s all,” he murmurs. 

Yuri tips his head to the side, exposing skin and the line of his jugular to Otabeck. A small, but pleased purr rumbles in Yuri’s chest, and Otabeck can all but see the fire that must be flashing in his eyes. 

“You had better be planning to fuck me into oblivion,” Yuri retorts, testing the waters in ways Otabeck knows far too well by now. “Or I’ll eat you alive.”

His reply comes in the way he rolls his hips hard against Yuri’s ass, in the rough moan that bursts forth when Yuri grinds back ruthlessly against him, awakening every bit of arousal Otabek had thought to control. But that is how it went all too often when playing with fire, enjoying the idea of holding it fettered and pliable while the reality is that it could raze the whole world to the ground around you.

But it’s those sharp little taunts that drive Otabeck forward with the entire idea. They drop from Yuri’s lips with a smile, cutting at first and growing more heated by the minute. Otabeck doesn’t know whether he’s a masochist for it all, particularly for the way Yuri’s mouth lets each terrible thought fly from his lips with reckless freedom. But there’s something to be loved for the way Yuri doesn’t hold back.

_“I want every fucking inch of you, Otabeck.”_

By the time he’s got Yuri bent over the island, cock buried to the hilt and a fistful of blond hair in his hand, Yuri’s words have turned to uninhibited moaning. Otabeck pulls his hips back, slow and precise, and as Yuri starts cursing once more against the tiled countertop, he jerks them forward again.

Again and again. Until there is only the discordant rhythm of Yuri’s curses dropping like rainwater from the gutter and skin smacking remorseless against skin with every thrust. 

When Yuri comes, his fingers grip the edge of the counter until he’s white-knuckled and panting. Otabeck catches himself being watched seconds later, just over the line of Yuri’s shoulder, as he drives his hips forward, spiraling down towards his own climax. And he thinks he’s got several more hard thrusts in him until he catches the curl to the corner of Yuri’s mouth, Hell's brand of devious, and makes out the words mouthed in perfect silence. The intent unmistakable.

 _Come deep_.

And Otabeck knows it’s not Yuri that wanted oblivion at all. He lasts all of five more seconds, completely undone by that smile, victorious and shameless, with Yuri’s lips still slightly parted as the air rushes in and out over them, his eyes bright with satisfaction. And Otabeck could almost hate himself for coming as commanded but never has his world burned down so exquisitely well. 

His grip unravels from Yuri’s hair, hand dropping down to the counter to where he settles it over top of Yuri’s, where Yuri intertwines their fingers moments later. 

“Still upset?” he asks, breathless and hopeful.

“No.” Yuri snorts with amusement, smile spilling wide and sated across his lips. “Now, get your dick out of me so we can eat.” 

And there is nothing left for Otabeck but to laugh, this quiet bit of it spilled warm across Yuri’s shoulder, because never in his life had being done in felt like absolute perfection. 

“I thought all those years ago you had been a soldier. . .”

“I’m something else now?”

“Pretty sure you’re a devil,” Otabeck breathes out.

“You do realize you’re the guy in love with me, right?” But Yuri is still smiling, entirely unperturbed.

Otabeck hums out softly, the slightest curve to his lips. “Yeah, never said I was an angel though.”


End file.
